


A Wonderful Place

by wordybirdy



Series: Trifle Bubbles - One-Shots & Multi-Chaptered [9]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:57:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: An escape from the real world, for just a few hours.





	

We had been walking for twenty five minutes, the late spring sunshine at our backs. The narrow path that we were on was wide enough for two abreast; our shoulders bumped as we negotiated potholes, the atrophied clumps of grassy mud. My knapsack bounced, though light enough. I heard the clink of earthenware, its shoulders bumping with the tin. 

And so much green around us! Budding trees and bushes, flowers, tall grass, my friend's new ear-flapped travelling cap...

“Holmes,” I called out, then – for he had sprung ahead twelve paces, eager for I don't know what – “Holmes?”

He halted, turned back to me. “What?”

I caught up with him. “Stop running away,” I complained, although really not minding at all.

“My legs are longer than yours,” he said, smiling. “Would you prefer that I shuffle?”

I took his hand, fair brazen from the freedom and the solitude we had found ourselves within. I squeezed it, twice. A silent code. _Love you._ Two squeezes back. I smiled then, too.

“John,” said he, “you're clanking terribly.”

“It's the plates,” I replied. “In the knapsack.”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you imagine that if you were carrying them, they would not clank?”

“I should not be thinking of plates in the first place,” said Holmes. “It was your idea for a springtime picnic, not mine.”

We started off again.

“What I should really like,” my friend continued, “is a murder. A mystery. For something to _happen_.”

I stared at him aghast. “What?”

Holmes's face now bore every indication of a beatific smile. “A severed arm, just off the path,” he elaborated broadly. “A blood trail, leading away into the grass. A high-pitched, wailing scream. A --”

“No!” I dropped his hand. “Whatever for? And why? You are on holiday.”

“I am entirely aware of that unfortunate fact.” 

“On holiday,” I repeated, glaring. I exhaled long and loud. “A severed arm, indeed.” Then, with a concluding sigh: “You are exasperating.”

I heard him chuckle softly. “I am also aware of that fact, my dear fellow.”

I paused to gaze around me at the blues, the greens, the yellows, and to marvel at the beauty of such nature that surrounded us. The warm and gentle breeze, the mellow birdsong, and, from far away, the faintest twitter of the town that we had left to trek thus far.

“All of this!” I said, and I windmilled my arms. “It is perfection. But you would rather be back home in London.”

“I did not say that,” my friend replied. “I merely said that I would appreciate an intrigue.” He tapped at his forehead. “For this.”

“For that infernal great brainbox of yours,” I retorted. I jolted off the path into the tall grass, and the knapsack on my back set off a clamour in three-part harmony.

“Yes.” said Sherlock Holmes. “For my infernal great brainbox.”

He did not sound offended.

I had found a clear and pleasant spot to rest: an oval, sun-warmed patch beneath a tree, beside a stream. I set down my knapsack and loosened its buckle, pulled back the flap and removed what was within: a small tablecloth (white), tin cups and plates (raucous), a corked earthenware bottle, and wax-paper wrapped bundles. The former and the latter I unfolded and laid out. I fussed around the edges of the cloth; I weighted it with a stone at every corner. Holmes, meanwhile, was eyeing me severely.

“We have been walking,” said he, “for just twenty five minutes.”

“For longer than that. Thirty five.”

“It isn't even lunchtime.”

“It's close enough. Sit down.”

My friend sat himself gingerly, inspecting and patting the grass as he did so. Reassured that his trousers would not be the worse for it, he settled and smiled at me. “There.”

“Well done,” I said. I sprawled out to my full length and gazed up full into the sky. “It is so peaceful. We should retire to this place, come the day.” I thought for a moment. “Your bees would like it too.” 

I heard him snort softly. “My theoretical bees.”

“I promise, you will have your own set of hives one day,” I said. “But I could hardly begin to imagine Mrs. Hudson's face if you set up in her yard.”

“She would strangle me, John.”

“I do not doubt it in the least.”

Holmes yawned. He set his back against the tree, and closed his eyes. I took this as opportunity to pick a sandwich from the pile upon the cloth. Two sandwiches, in fact. An egg and cress, a beef and mustard. I poured a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice. As I enjoyed our impromptu picnic, I chose to gaze upon my friend. No matter yet, the circumstance or year, I could not think of any better sight to see. 

He had loosened his collar a little, thrown his head back, exposing the pale, tender throat of him.  
His linen jacket, unbuttoned, his waistcoat still bound to him, guarding the riches of the muscular lean torso.  
A smear of yellow pollen on a trouser-leg.  
A speckle of dark-dried mud upon a stocking.  
A left bootlace beginning to unravel from its knot.

“And so what do you deduce of me, John?”

The sly fellow, he had been peeping all the while.

“I deduce that a pale linen suit was perhaps not the best choice for a Spring walk through the country,” I said.

“And yet you would have me prone upon this wretched grass, regardless.” A pause. “Oh, you know what I mean.” A distracted brushing of the pollen, of the mud; of close attention to the bootlace.

I broke into laughter. “There are few things I enjoy more,” I informed him, “than unintentional innuendo.”

“Yes,” said he, “I discovered that _very_ early in our relationship.”

“I also deduce,” I continued, “that you are quite the handsomest fellow I ever did see, and I love you, and I want you.”

Holmes pressed a finger to his lips. “You have applied my methods well.”

I laid back again. I beckoned him. “I am an eager pupil.”

He joined me, having first scanned all about him, fearing other hikers in the vicinity, I supposed. But there were none; we were alone here for the moment. I felt his arm around my waist, his other hand ruffling my hair, tugging just lightly. He lowered his mouth to mine; we kissed.

“Egg and cress and beef and mustard,” he said accusingly.

“And what else?”

He kissed me again. His tongue probed. He withdrew. “Oranges.” His nose crinkled. 

“Yes.”

Holmes laid his head upon my chest. I fancied he was listening to my heartbeat, for he was very still and quiet now. 

“Do you ever wonder about the future, John?” he asked then suddenly.

“The future? How do you mean? When you retire?”

He was quiet a moment longer. “Yes, perhaps.”

“As long as we are together, then the future will be heavenly,” I told him. “But what a question. Why did you ask it?”

“I think too much, you know that,” said my friend, twisting his head around to peep and smile at me. “I shouldn't want us to ever be parted.”

“It will never be so,” I said firmly. “Wipe that notion right out of your head, straight away.”

He nestled down once more, reassured, I hoped. 

“This suit will be terribly crumpled,” said Holmes, “by the end of whatever you're planning.”

“For once,” I said, “I am planning precisely nothing but this. With the added bonus of sandwiches.”

“My little bull.”

Isn't it so pleasant, though, to have someone with whom to talk this way? A love, to yammer nonsense with, to share your egg and cress, your beef and mustard, and all the rest of it.

We had our interlude under the sun, and then we rose to have our picnic, before the ants could take the most of it.

One hour on, and we were on our way, tracking by the stream side, heading for our destination.

And once there, to spend an idyll with all of nature.

On our way back, my friend was thoughtful once again.

“Now _that_ ,” said he, “would be the most wonderful place to dispose of an enemy, John, don't you think? A villain whom you really did object to, just imagine. To lure the fellow there on some pretext, and then a push! – _whoops!_ – who could tell where he'd end up, apart from somewhere at the bottom, soaking wet, and likely dead?”

I laughed with him, indulgent. “That sounds fantastical,” I said. “It would make for the most perfect story.”

“Perhaps,” said Sherlock Holmes. “Yes, perhaps it would, some day.”

And we trailed our way back down towards the town, to pack our bags, and dress for dinner.


End file.
